The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  The waiter reappeared moments later with an ice bucket on a stand, two champagne flutes propped inside, and opened the bottle with a loud pop, making them jump. He poured champagne into the two flutes, one hand behind his back as he talked them through the various items, ‘And the champagne will compliment it, with notes of citrus and honey, as I’m sure you’ll notice.’

  Maria swallowed down a giggle and Troy listened intently, giving a solemn nod after he sniffed at his glass. He was enjoying playing the role.

  They tried everything: an explosion of flavours in her mouth. The lightest sponge, the richest cream, the sharp tang of the champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose. It all tasted as fabulous as it looked, her stomach weighty with it all as she sat back.

  ‘Wow!’ she said, wishing she could let out a button on her skirt.

  Troy licked a finger and grinned at her, reaching across and offering her the last miniature cake. Maria lifted a hand, even that required effort, and shook her head – ‘I really couldn’t.’ She watched him pop it straight in his mouth.

  They continued to admire people coming and going, feeling light-headed at a second glass of champagne. Woozy and full of food, Maria was grateful to get up and head outside, the breeze bringing her back to life.

  She felt her shoulders relax as they stepped back onto the street, Troy immediately talking at full volume. ‘That was mental. Fuckin’ hell. I thought we’d get kicked out if we spoke too loud.’

  His laugh was infectious and she found herself joining in. Afternoon tea at The Ritz was an experience but she knew she didn’t fit into that glitzy polished world.

  ‘Was there meant to be more than cucumber in some of those sandwiches? That was weird. Oh my god, I’m full though! Those puffy pastry things were amazing, hands down the best thing I’ve ever eaten. God, though…’ He hunched over, laughing again. ‘Can I take off these shoes now? They’re rubbing my feet.’

  Maria waited as he pulled his trainers out of the bag and slid them back on, the hole in his sock reminding her to get him some new ones.

  ‘Come on, I want to take you somewhere else,’ Maria said, feeling lighter as they moved away, out into the real world, with ordinary people.

  She had practised using the map on her mobile phone and was directing Troy, stopping intermittently to check the little blue dot was moving in the right direction.

  ‘It’s along here,’ she said, wandering down the road towards Piccadilly Circus, Troy blinking up at the enormous neon signs wrapped around the buildings, completely silent as his neck craned left and right, soaking it all in.

  There were people everywhere: some on phones, some posing for photos, some moving past with briefcases and serious expressions, a huge crocodile of schoolchildren, weary teachers flanking them on either side, others clutching a million carrier bags stuffed with shopping. London felt like the middle of the universe, the bustle like nothing she had ever known. She craved the peace of Brighton, the slower pace, the open space. For a brief second, she missed the stretch of ocean before that thought was pushed down inside her again.

  Passing through Leicester Square, Maria marvelled at the buzz and Troy stared up at the movie posters. ‘This is where there are premieres of all the films,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen it on TV before.’ They were right in the heart of things, right in the middle of the action.

  ‘It’s down here.’ She directed him down a wide road, London buses sighing with relief as they stopped, taxis and cars meandering past, people jaywalking, skirting the stationary cars, horns blaring.

  The National Portrait Gallery, grand in its Portland stone, soared above them, people checking their watches by the entrance, calling out to children rushing past. Troy seemed to have lost all words as he practically tripped up to the entrance. They seemed to be ticking off every London landmark. Maria thought of Albie chuckling somewhere at their bemused, overwhelmed expressions, as they caught each other’s eyes and grinned in shocked bemusement.

  Little them! In London!

  She had wanted to take him to an art gallery, somewhere to inspire him, but realised early on that she had led him to a part of the gallery that was not perhaps the type of art that got him excited.

  ‘There are a lot of old white men in tights,’ he said, standing in front of yet another oil painting of a man in sixteenth-century garb. Maria couldn’t help but giggle as she viewed the place from Troy’s position.

  ‘Let’s go and see the Tudor room, they’ll be some of Henry VIII in there,’ she said, leading him to the staircase.

  ‘Henry who?’

  Maria rolled her eyes. ‘You know, big king, broke from Rome.’

  Troy continued to look at her blankly.

  ‘He was the one with six wives.’

  ‘Player!’ he smirked and Maria hit him with her handbag. Troy put up both hands. ‘What?! He was a lad!’

  The portraits of the Tudors seemed to spark his interest, studying their expressions as they stood in front of each one.

  ‘She looks like she’s got a secret, doesn’t she?’ Troy said, pointing at a portrait of Anne Boleyn, a triangular headdress, a nipped-in waist, a knowing look on her face.

  ‘She supposedly had six fingers.’

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘I’m not sure how true that was, Albie didn’t believe it. We discussed a programme about her that dismissed a lot of the old myths. He was a fan, thought she was “a much-maligned woman” as he put it. I think he admired her.’

  Troy had grown quiet as he watched her.

  ‘What?’ she said, patting at her hair self-consciously, wondering if she had something on her face.

  ‘You really miss him,’ Troy said simply.

  Maria nodded slowly. ‘Every day.’

  He turned away. ‘Me too, man.’

  They moved through the last few rooms deep in their own thoughts, no more talk of kings or queens, just knowing they had been brought together today because of him. This was a different world and Troy was getting a glimpse of it. She felt a sudden guilt knowing they would be heading back on the train, that she would be snatching this away as easily as she had introduced him to it. Maria knew it was time to share her surprise with him.

  ‘Can we take a seat?’ she asked, moving towards a leather bench in the middle of a room punctuated with glass boxes filled with sculptures.

  The crowd had thinned out and the room was largely silent, other than the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards loud in the space, people speaking in low voices, heads bent together as they read the information on the small plaques.

  Troy sat, placing his carrier bag of clothes on the floor, a nearby attendant glancing up and then away.

  ‘Troy,’ she said, twisting on the bench to look at him, ‘there’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  His face closed down, his eyes narrowed, fists curled in preparation. Was he so used to hearing bad news? She could see the defensive tightening of his muscles, a vein going in his neck.

  ‘It’s a good thing,’ she said, wanting him to relax again, to trust her.

  He softened a fraction, head tilted to the left as he waited, hands still curled tightly.

  ‘So, you know that Albie left me things in his will?’ she said, words slow and careful. She had thought about how she wanted to tell him, nervous that it wouldn’t come out right.

  Troy’s frown deepened, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I went to the solicitor the other day as I now need to make my own will’ – she threaded her hands together – ‘in case anything happens.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ he blurted, his panic palpable.

  ‘I am, but I’m getting on and I want things to be clear if anything were to happen,’ Maria said quietly.

  He seemed to relax a little, his face clearing. ‘Oh good, alright, sounds sensible.’

  ‘The thing is…’ Maria took a breath. ‘I want to leave you his flat.’

  Troy’s eyes widened and both hands went up. ‘No, no,
that’s alright, I’m fine, man.’

  Maria’s voice was firm, ‘I want to know you always have somewhere to go, somewhere that is your own.’

  Troy was shaking his head. ‘No, that’s too much. I don’t need it, I’m alright.’

  ‘I don’t want to debate it with you,’ Maria said softly, one hand on his leg. ‘This is what I wish if I go and Ms Leonard will be in touch if so.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t, I wouldn’t…’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it more,’ Maria said, her tone no-nonsense, a new authoritative look, the parent, ‘Albie would want it too.’

  Troy’s hands dropped into his lap and his head bowed. There was total silence for a while. ‘You really want to do that for me.’ The words were so hushed she might have missed them.

  The solicitor had recorded all Maria’s wishes. She had wanted to get her affairs in place, ensure that the people in her life now would still be looked after when she was gone. She had instructed Ms Leonard, Becky (she’d insisted), and had left money to Keith so he’d never have to be back on the streets, enough for Cara to at least hire a cleaner every week, Pauline to visit the spa whenever she liked, Timothy to take the cruise he had told her about. Charities, the church, tiny sums for people who had always been warm and made her life a more pleasant place: Amrit, Mr Khan (how much Meghan memorabilia might he buy, she wondered), Mandy and Nina, and finally, she had left Albie’s art to Troy and Cathie.

  ‘I want to do that for you. And there’s more…’ She took a breath.

  Troy looked up, aghast, and the expression made her laugh aloud.

  ‘God, anyone would think I was about to tell you I’ve shot your pet rabbit. Relax…’

  But he couldn’t relax, biting his lip.

  ‘I’ve enquired about putting a small deposit down on that shop with the boarded-up windows on St James Street that’s been closed for years. The owner is happy for it to be rented out and used as a tattoo parlour when you’re ready.’

  Troy’s eyes grew so wide she could see the whites all around his pupils.

  ‘Once you’re eighteen, you can get a licence. I thought you could talk to Adam, see how long you’ve got left as an apprentice. I’ve every faith you’re going to be a brilliant tattoo artist.’

  Troy’s mouth parted and he simply sat staring at her, processing everything she was saying.

  ‘You are so talented and you have wonderful ideas and I know Albie thought so too. He would want to see you achieve your dreams. And it won’t be easy,’ she warned, trying to jolt him out of this catatonic state, ‘and you’ll have to work for it, but, well, what do you think?’

  Troy was still dumbstruck, unable to form words or react to what she was saying. He finally came to and he simply wrapped one arm around her shoulder. ‘You’re amazing,’ he said, pulling her into him. ‘You’ve changed my life.’

  Maria felt tears fill her eyes. She straightened and smoothed at her skirt. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said, voice wavering.

  Troy was shaking his head slowly from side to side. ‘A parlour. I can’t… it’s going to be…’ His face split into the widest smile, two sets of bright white teeth, his eyes sparkling. ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Oh my god indeed.’

  ‘OH MY GOD,’ Troy burst, laughing so loudly the attendant looked up from his spot, a finger to his lips. ‘FUCKING HELL.’

  They left before the attendant was out of his chair, sides aching as they propped each other up all the way to the exit.

  She placed the photograph on the bedside table. There were others, neatly stuck in an album: not enough. Why hadn’t she taken more?

  This one was her favourite, stuck to her fridge for years, so familiar, so her. She could stare at that photograph and remember what it felt like to have her face pressed so close, the wind biting at their skin, bundled into their thick coats, clutching each other as she held the small camera in her hand, her wrist bending as she pressed down on the button.

  ‘Look,’ she’d said, holding it up in Boots, seconds after the album was back from being developed. ‘This is a nice one. Love you, Mum.’

  She didn’t say it often, and certainly not in public, standing in front of the counter of Boots as a middle-aged woman handed back my change.

  I took the photo from her and studied it, smiling. ‘It is a nice one.’

  ‘You keep it,’ she said, rifling through the rest of the photographs, her laughter filling the space as she stumbled across some from a friend’s fifteenth bowling birthday party. ‘Look at Polly’s face!’

  I tucked the photograph inside my book and smiled as she continued to show me the rest of the album: grinning teenagers, energy spilling out of every single one of them.

  Love you, my girl.

  Thirty-Four

  She ticked ‘Take her to The Ritz for afternoon tea – for some proper tea and cake!!!’ under her own name and stared at the words below. She didn’t know why today suddenly seemed right, but she knew something had changed. Today was the day.

  Perhaps it was the fact that she had found the source of her strength, knowing that others were relying on her: Cara, Troy, they needed her. She hadn’t felt needed for thirty-six years. The last person who had needed her was lying in that graveyard.

  Pushing the negative thoughts to the back of her head, she dressed carefully in jeans and a bottle-green jumper. She clipped back her hair and fetched a tote bag from the kitchen. She would need to stop by the DIY store and pick up some things on the way.

  It was a cool, fresh day and people were milling around the streets, sitting out on tables outside restaurants, enjoying the unseasonable weather.

  The DIY shop was dusty and dark as she pushed inside out of the sunshine. She bought secateurs, a packet of tulip seeds, soil and a cream ceramic plant pot. A cloth, spray cleaner for granite and marble, a nailbrush. She handed over her card at the counter, chuckling softly to herself as she remembered the last time she was in there buying weed killer she didn’t need, when searching for a man she did. She left, her tote bag packed with her supplies.

  Go to the grave…and plant some tulips.

  Swallowing her fear, she set off in the direction of the church, wanting to walk there slowly, taking time to compose herself. Her stomach was leaping and gurgling with nerves. She gripped the bag tightly.

  Rounding the last corner, she took a deep breath, seeing the spire up ahead, sunlight slicing across the roof, casting shadows on the ground beneath. The iron railings had been recently painted, she noticed, as she approached the lichgate. She licked her lips, wavering on the pavement. She could turn around. She could head home. She could walk past without looking back, like she had done countless times before, never allowing herself to glance inside, to think about what was resting in the corner.

  No one else was around and it seemed the noise from the street behind her faded as she stared through the gap above the gate to the grass beyond. Marble gleamed amongst green grass flattened by footsteps, new rows that she couldn’t remember had cropped up. It had been almost forty years. She could see the yew tree, bigger than in her memory, spreading its branches over a shady corner.

  Her palms were slick as she pushed through the gate, the squeak as it opened, a sudden cold as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

  The walk to the headstone seemed to take two seconds and forever and suddenly she was standing there. It wasn’t crooked or covered in moss as she had thought of it over the years. The words were still bold, engraved in black on the polished stone:

  ROSIE BIRCH, BELOVED DAUGHTER, 1968–1984

  Rosie. Her wonderful, beautiful, lively Rosie. Her eyes filled with tears and she sank to her knees on the grass, not caring about the damp, her knees soaked through within seconds.

  Rosie. How could she be sitting in front of Rosie’s grave? Maria’s whole body shuddered with grief as she pressed her hands to her eyes and let the tears fall.

  Her daughter, just a sixteen-year-old. She had failed to p
rotect her own daughter.

  The memories battered her as she knelt: Rosie as a baby, with downy hair and the softest skin; as a toothy toddler, careering down the promenade; as an awkward pre-teen, all braces and long limbs, awkwardly hiding behind a curtain of hair; as a teen, dancing to music blaring in her room, packed with her friends spilling off her bed and onto the floor, giggling excitedly, experimenting with make-up.

  Her last memory: Rosie clattering down the stairs after their argument – the sound of heels she had only started to wear recently – shouting a stiff goodbye, heading out of the door to waiting friends, not wanting another lecture about a curfew. Maria, distracted by the work she had to do that evening, calling to her from another room, but too late for a response. She couldn’t remember what she had called out. She should have told her to be safe, to take care, to be back at a certain time. That she was precious. She should have told her that she loved her.

  She shouldn’t have let her go.

  She hadn’t been able to go to bed, had waited up for her, annoyed because she had work the next day. Rosie could be thoughtless, too tied up with her friends and having fun to think. She had stood in the doorway of Rosie’s room rehearsing the lecture she would give her: that there were other people in the world to think about. She’d been out too much. They’d already had the row that evening because of it. Yes, she was sixteen now, but she still lived under her roof. 9 p.m. Voices were raised. Doors had been banged.

  Maria looked from her watch to the clock and back. No sign. Where was she? She would be exhausted for work the next day: she was an advertising executive and she wanted a promotion, had been working seventy hours a week. She wanted to be a good role model for her daughter, show her that hard work could pay off. That she could support a family as a single mother, have ambition, have it all.